I hate llamas because they're smelly, and their hair is all matted and greasy and gross, and they spit, and they make weird noises. They're prone to hyperactivity for no apparent reason. They're like giant, overgrown sheep with long necks. Like if a sheep and a giraffe had sex one day... a llama is what will pop out nine months later.
And I most especially hate llamas because I am freaking surrounded by them.
My name is Nick Carter, and this is my story.
It started out normal enough. I was sitting in the airport terminal eating Lucky Charms and AJ was kicking the back of my seat, trying to irritate me. We'd bet that I could handle it longer than he could keep kicking. He was certain my hot headed temper would make me pummel him long before he bored of watching me bounce each time he kicked the chair. We'd bet fifty bucks on my temper holding out long enough for him to get bored. I was not losing fifty bucks - but the second he stopped kicking I was gonna rip him to shreds. He knew I was gonna kill him when he stopped. I think that's what was keeping him going.
We'd been sitting in the Brazilian airport for what felt like forever by this point. We were bored out of our minds - as evidenced by the fact that this was how we were entertaining ourselves. It had seriously been about three hours. The plane was delayed because they were trying to fix some part that was broken or something... 'cos thats what all plane passengers wanna hear before boarding, right? "Sorry, your planes broken, but we have an underpaid professional on the tarmac at 4:00 AM doing the repairs with a flashlight!"
They didn't really say that. But it would've been funny if they did. Plus it would've been true, I was willing to bet.
Brian was watching and half-heartedly looking over photo proofs.
"Aren't you pissed yet?" AJ asked, his voice slightly winded as though he were exerting himself.
"Nope," I shoved a handful of dry cereal into my mouth and grabbed my backpack from the chair next to me, unzipping it and rummaging for no real reason other than I wanted something to do. I didn't pack books and my notebook was full.
"AJ, just stop already," Howie pleaded, looking up from a news paper. We were surrounded by discarded newspapers, but I couldn't read any of them. They were all in Spanish. My extended knowledge of Spanish was the magical phrase "Tengo que hacer caca. Donde esta el bano?" Roughly translated, that means "I have to poop so where's the bathroom?"
AJ shook his head, "No frickin' way - the second I do he's gonna kick my ass."
Brian laughed, "Isn't that what you're trying to make him do?"
"Yeah but if i stop I lose fifty bucks and get my ass kicked. If he kicks my ass before I stop, at least I get the fifty bucks," AJ reasoned with a shrug.
"What makes you agree to bets like this?" Howie asked, rolling his eyes. "It's a lose-lose for you, AJ."
"No 'cos I'll get fifty dollars if I can piss this shithead off."
"It's not gonna happen, dude," I said, shaking my head, "You might as well stop and give me the money."
AJ shook his head, "Hell no. That's called quitting. Besides, if I keep doing this, I won't have to go to the gym later."
I rolled my eyes.
A tinny voice came over the intercom. She said some stuff in speedy Spanish before repeating in broken English, "Flight number 115 for Lima now boarding for convenience of the flyer."
AJ jumped up from his seat in excitement, "YES!"
I held out my hand.
He looked at it, then realized what he'd just done. "Aw dammit!" he wailed, fishing out the money from his pocket.
We all grabbed our carry-on bags and pulled out our passports and boarding passes before heading to the terminal that would head out to our plane. We proceeded in a line, like ducks in a row, Brian leading the way, followed by Howie, then AJ, and me taking up the rear. I knew the moment Brian stepped over the jamb of the plane's door that we were in trouble because he stopped short and backed up into Howie. "Aw hell nawh," he muttered, his Kentucky coming out.
"C'mon man, get on the plane." Howie shoved our tiny southern friend into the plane and I saw Brian wince.
I imagined the plane as missing like a wing or something.
When it was my turn to step inside, I had the same response as Brian. "Aw hell nawh," I said, looking around.
The interior of the plane was smaller than my living room back home. Granted I've got a big living room, but the point is a plane should not be able to fit inside any living room. I bet most planes couldn't fit into the living room at even the Taj Mahal. But this one, seriously, if I moved my couch, could've set itself down in front of the TV.
Probably even without moving the coffee table, for crying outloud.
Howie was literally buckling Brian into his seat. Brian's eyes were wider than saucers (what a stupid phrase when you think about it - why do we compare eyes to plates?). He was clutching the chair in front of him by the headrest, his knuckles pale white and his eyes darting around the cabin. "Let's walk to Peru," he gasped.
"I'm with Brian," I added, nodding and backing toward the exit.
Howie, satisfied Brian was strapped in, turned and grabbed my arm before I could bolt back down the terminal to the airport. "Stop being babies." He dragged me in and stuck me down next to Brian and raised his eyebrow. "You can make this easy, Carter, or you can make this hard." He held up the buckle.
I sighed and grabbed it, shoving it into the sprocket and pulling it tight across my lap.
"Good. Saves me the time." Howie turned to his own seat.
Brian looked at me. "I don't like this plane. At all."
